


a story told through touch

by Skeptic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Touching, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-17 05:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20615501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeptic/pseuds/Skeptic
Summary: a collection of vignettes revolving around touch





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm giving fic-writing a shot again so aaaaaaaaaaaa here goes nothing? ??  
i haven't written anything since like 2013 this is gonna be a HOT mess ahhaha
> 
> i'll add more tags as the chapters come along / they are relevant

**London, 2019**

A few weeks following the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, the flat above Aziraphale's bookshop was occupied by two very drunk individuals, currently in the process of getting as sloshed as they could, just because they could.

It was a new world, after all, one where they did not have to worry about Heaven or Hell, or impending ends. So they were using their time wisely, one sprawled across the couch while the other sat next to the table on the floor, giggling and sharing a bottle of wine (okay, multiple bottles, but who were they to count?) Their conversations ranged from Crowley's gardening habits to plans for the bookshop and many more topics making their way in between the two, and the pair have now landed on the level of drunk where comparisons that shouldn't be made are in the process of being made.

"They remind me of the stars."

"They do _not_."

"Yes, they do!"

"Explain, please, angel, before I discorporate from trying too hard to connect these dots you're laying down."

Crowley took another sip of wine and stared at Aziraphale, who had gone unnaturally silent, swishing his own glass around, seemingly lost in thought.

"Well, they're both... quite yellow, aren't they?" Aziraphale finally said, to which he earned a snort.

"My dear boy, how is that amusing?" Aziraphale said, hiccuping loudly and covering his mouth with a hand while Crowley howled with laughter.

"It's really not even that funny, Crowley!" he insisted, but Crowley had already taken off his glasses to wipe at his eyes.

"You said that lemons- of all things, _lemons_\- reminded you of the stars, how else am I supposed to respond to that?" Crowley said.

"You could give a dignified response, for one," Aziraphale sniffed. Crowley chuckled.

"I'll give one when it's deserved," he said, draining the rest of his glass. He stared at it contemplatively for a moment before reaching over for the bottle- a nice 1982 Mouton-Rothschild this time around- and pouring himself another glass. At this point he's lost count of how much he's drunk, much less both of them, but Aziraphale had more wine than a distillery, so it didn't quite matter.

"Aside from the colour yellow, there's nothing much the two of those-" Crowley waves his hand in the air, sloshing a bit of wine on the carpet, "-have in common, you know?"

Aziraphale tuts and miracled away the spilled wine, setting his own glass down on the table.

"They're both beloved." he said.

"By which you mean you love lemon tartlets, and macarons, and since they are both ovular you're comparing them to the stars?" Crowley asked, a single eyebrow raised.

"I'm done with this line of conversation." Aziraphale said.

"Angel!"

"Crowley."

Crowley huffed but laid his drink down on the table, noting the way the light highlighted the lip stains on the glass. Carefully pressed on, some overlapping with others, mostly in the same centralized location. He wondered, in his drunken state, whether kissing Aziraphale would be similar. Would he get a chance to pepper small kisses around the angel's face, returning to kiss his lips over and over in between?

"My dear boy, you've gone awfully quiet." Aziraphale said. Crowley blinked up from his wine glass, meeting Aziraphale's questioning eyes. If anyone were to suggest he was turning rather red, he would vehemently deny it right then and there.

"Just thinkin' about lemons and stars, you know me, big star fan." Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded.

"Tell me about how you made them." he said gently, laying back down against the couch. Crowley blinked, his wide yellow eyes glossed over from the alcohol. He was thinking it was about time to sober up, but maybe later. Maybe later.

"What can I tell you that you haven't already heard a million times throughout the years?" Crowley began, closing his eyes and sighing. "I was given the task by Her, and She told me to expand the horizons of the universe, to fill it with life and light. I simply did as She asked of me at the time," he said gently, returning his gaze to his glass. The light caught it in such a way where it gleams off the rim, and Crowley bitterly remembers the time spent weaving the stars into being, placing them by the thousands in their places, breathing life into them so that they may cluster in the way they now appear. Some big, some small, all the different makeups of the giants, how they look from a distance, yes, that was important too. How it served as a purpose to show the humans that they weren't alone. How it served as a way to show them that they weren't alone in Heaven. He's an agent of Hell now, though, and no one will remember him for his work up under Her eyes.

He looks up at Aziraphale, only to see him staring at him with a look in his eyes that Crowley can't quite place, but it looks like sympathy, or perhaps pity. Had he said all that out loud?

Crowley breaks the gaze quickly, picking up the bottle again to fill both their glasses on the table. He picks his up and drains it fast, thinking that it may have been a good idea to not sober up, after all.

"Crowley, my dear, pass along that wine glass, could you?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, pointedly staring at the distance (less than a meter, mind you) between Aziraphale and the table, but reached over and grabbed it anyways, long fingers wrapping around the stem, delicate but firm. He wondered whether Aziraphale would let him wrap his fingers around him one day. Maybe one day. Not today. Not just yet. Extended his arm towards the couch, where the angel is laying.

Aziraphale reached out a lazy hand, palm facing at an angle, a look that you might expect to see when someone is asking you to dance. Crowley wondered if they could dance one day. If he would be the one asking the angel, or the angel be the one asking him. Wouldn't matter either way, as long as they got to dance for real, for once. They've been dancing circles around it for thousands of years, after all.

Crowley gently slid the stem into Aziraphale's expectant fingers, his own brushing against the angel's palm as the transfer of the glass is made. His hand is warm, Crowley thought, just as is to be expected. Angels are full of love, bound to be warm.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice the way Crowley's heart thumped at the point of contact, where their fingers touched. The moment seemed to be extended through time as Aziraphale secured the glass with a gentle twist of fingers around the glass, not quite pulling away, no, please don't pull away, I want to touch you forever. Crowley doesn't let go. He knows it's ridiculous. Has the angel noticed?

Aziraphale smiled gently down at him, a warm finger nudging back into Crowley's hand as a form of thanks, and said a thank you- or did he mouth it, really, Crowley can't seem to hear past the beating of his heart in his ears. The angel's hand is warm, so warm. Cold-blooded or not, Crowley doesn't want to stop feeling this warmth. Aziraphale's finger is still nudging his. Or is it a caress?

The point of contact comes to an end as Aziraphale lifted his glass finally, taking a rather large swig of it, and cradled it to his chest, placing a second hand over the one holding it. He smiled at Crowley, and Crowley's heart momentarily stopped.

They go back to talking shortly afterwards, but Crowley's heart never quite returned to its normal beating that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley is sick, aziraphale comes over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going off of prompts from here on out (feel free to comment some you'd like to see!) but I'm sick right now so the prompt is officially "sick" for this chapter ahaha

**London, 2019**

It shouldn't be possible.

No, it definitely should _not_ be possible.

Crowley stared down at the small blue stick in front of him, eyes blurring as he tried to focus on the box. What did what mean again? He flicked on the second set of lights as he leaned over the kitchen island, dropping his head down into his hands. Everything hurt. He groaned, tossing the thermometer to the counter. This was annoying.

Should he ask for help? What does one even _do_ in this situation? He's certainly never had to deal with his corporeal body before, at least, not in this way. This was out of his reach. Well above his pay grade. There was no explanation for how this had come about. Demons don't get sick.

Crowley, at this point, would have paced around, but his body was worn and tired, and he could feel his eyes grow heavy from exhaustion and worry. Was he dying? The box didn't say. It just said what temperature constituted a 'fever,' which apparently he had, according to the small LED numbers that had flashed at him after he held it in his mouth like an idiot. Good lot _that_ information did. He had a fever. Now what?

"Call Aziraphale." he muttered at his phone, which promptly began to ring. The phone connected in two short beeps.

"_Crowley? Is that you?_" Aziraphale's voice crackled through the phone. Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"No, actually, it's Hestur. Yes, angel, it's me, who else would be calling from my phone?"

"_It's best to ask and always make sure,_" Aziraphale chided. "_To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?_"

"Never mind that," Crowley said, "I need... your help."

-

Aziraphale had quickly agreed to drop by as soon as possible, concern mounting as Crowley didn't care to elaborate on what he needed. Crowley would have. Elaborated, that is. The situation was too humiliating, though, even for an agent of Hell. _Especially_ for an agent of Hell. There was no way he was letting Aziraphale know he was running a temperature, not over the phone. No, he decided, if the angel were to laugh at him, best it be in person.

A rapid succession of knocks came from the front door and Aziraphale burst in, making a beeline towards the couch where Crowley lay, covered in a blanket. Crowley blearily glared at Aziraphale (he had been _resting_, thank you very much, the situation was worrying but he wasn't dying, at least, he didn't think he was?), who had shuffled around and planted himself in a chair, and was now staring adamantly at the thermometer as if he'd never seen something like it.

Knowing him, he probably hadn't.

Aziraphale's eyes went from the stick, to Crowley, back to the stick, back to Crowley, and his mouth hung slightly ajar as he processed what was in front of him. He raised a single questioning finger pointing towards the offending object, eyebrows shot up in concern.

"Is that," Aziraphale gulped, "what I think it is?" Crowley furrowed his eyebrows. Aziraphale turned a slight shade of pink.

"What on earth could you possibly mean by that?" he asked incredulously. Aziraphale only reddened further, stammering a quick apology as he motioned towards his stomach, and then to Crowley's. Crowley sighed.

"It's a thermometer, angel." he muttered, choosing to ignore the whole line of thought that must've passed through Aziraphale's mind in that split second.

"Ah, yes, of course, my sincerest apologies, my dear boy, I did not mean to assume, I don't know enough about these bodies to understand the extent of what it is we can do with them-"

"Angel?" Crowley interrupted.

"Yes, Crowley?"

"Shut it." he groaned, dropping his head back down on the couch and pulling the blanket over himself. Calling Aziraphale had been a mistake.

Aziraphale seemed to sense his regret, because the next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale had disappeared into the kitchen and was, from the sounds of it, preparing tea. Crowley would normally be opposed to consuming anything but coffee, but given that his throat was burning up in similar ways to when he would try to say his name from before the Fall, a cup or two couldn't hurt to try and soothe the pain.

Aziraphale re-entered with said cup (and the whole kettle, for that matter) and placed them gently down on the small table in front of the couch, coming to sit next to Crowley.

"What did the thermometer say?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Says I got a fever." Crowley whispered. Aziraphale nodded, grabbing the cup of tea and pressing it into Crowley's hands. It was warm. Crowley took a sip, tried not to make a face. Probably failed.

"Quite right," Aziraphale said. A beat. "What's that mean?"

Crowley was in the middle of a sip when he laughed, which quickly turned into a coughing spasm. Aziraphale hovered in alarm, wringing his hands, unsure of what to do.

"Apparently- fuck, angel, don't make me laugh- apparently it's an increase in body temperature. The box said so," he motioned towards the box, and Aziraphale frowned. Crowley drained his tea, placing the empty cup down on the table.

"How do you know what to do about it?" he asked, grabbing the box and twisting it around in his hands. He furrowed his brows as he looked at it, and Crowley couldn't help but smile as he watched the angel do what he was doing not a few hours ago.

"I don't, it's why I called you," Crowley muttered. "I felt off for a few days and couldn't miracle it away so I went out and bought a first aid kit. Figured I'd cover all my grounds. Most things in there didn't help. Still don't." Aziraphale looked over and smiled softly at him.

"We can figure it out together," he said gently, tossing the box aside and reaching over to grab the ends of the blanket the covered Crowley. A moment later, the blanket was miracled to be larger, and Aziraphale stood to wrap it entirely around Crowley.

Crowley's face was heating up, but he wasn't sure if it was from the fever, or from the angel's soft touches as he pressed the blanket around him.

"There," Aziraphale said, bringing the final edges of the blanket and tugging it together at Crowley's front, "you're all set for now." He pressed the ends down, patting at them, and brought his hands up to cup Crowley's face, twisting it up so bleary yellow eyes met crystal blue ones. The blue ones filled with surprise.

"My, you _are_ quite warm, dear boy," he said softly, one thumb smoothing circles on his cheek. Crowley could feel his body betraying him as he flushed- though it was hopefully lost in the already-heated part of his physical form. Aziraphale hummed, smoothing Crowley's hair, and sat down next to him, gently tugging Crowley down on top of his lap.

"We will figure out how to make you better soon, Crowley, but for now, you look exhausted," Aziraphale said, fingers continuing to run through Crowley's locks. Crowley just muttered, pressing back into the touch, closing his eyes.

"We'll figure it out together."


End file.
